


Stained Glass

by Fadefox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, M/M, mentions of other characters/ships, most of these fall under angst I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-16 23:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16963239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadefox/pseuds/Fadefox
Summary: A collection of short writings.No beta, no theme, just a giant mess of leftovers.Character focus and/or ships (if applicable) are in the chapter notes though.





	1. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric

There's nothing fair about it.

Nothing at all.

"Anders."

He's no stranger to punishment given his impressive record of violating rules, teasing authority figures or generally attracting the wrong kind of attention at the wrong time. Considering that most of these offences were committed in defiance against being treated like a criminal just for being born a mage he probably didn't truly _deserve_ to be punished for them either but at least it wasn't as if he hadn't known there would be consequences to his actions.

This is different. He hasn't done anything wrong this time. Nothing. On the contrary: He'd been in high spirits lately, tackling his duties with an abundance of motivation, supporting the Wardens’ cause with all he had. Things had been in order, or as much as they would probably ever be for him, for the first time.

And now they do this.

"Anders, I don't have all day."

It's not fair and he has told them as much, has argued, even yelled and slammed doors and knocked over all fragile things within reach like a stubborn child - but it had all been in vain. In the end he's in no position to object and he has promised, _promised_ , not to run this time. The temptation is overwhelming right now.

"Come on."

He should say something. It's him who's asking a favour after all - except that's not really what this is. It's not like he _wants_ this.

So he remains silent and grinds his teeth instead when tiny, sharp claws dig into his wrists as he hands over the furry, orange ball to Delilah Howe. Moments later he's already running away as fast as his robes will allow, and for all his practice it's never been this hard. The pitiful mewling in the distance grows more desperate with each step he takes back towards a place that feels more and more like another prison instead of a home.


	2. Dangerous Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenders | angst based on a piece of MotA banter

"Darkspawn," he says. As he always does.

It makes sense, is even true half the time and, most importantly, it just makes Fenris nod drowsily in acknowledgment and turn his face back into the pillow.

With a soundless sigh Anders lies back down beside him and closes his eyes in pretense of attempting to go back to sleep.

There are some things Fenris doesn't need to know. No point in making the elf feel guilty about a stupid joke from years ago when there's nothing to be done about the issue anyway, no point in risking another fight by conjuring up emotions neither of them knows how to deal with. They've become surprisingly good at avoiding constant quarrels but the peace requires some sacrifice on both their parts.

Besides, when he offers to mend Fenris' clothes after each battle with a gentle smile on his lips the elf will never suspect it's because Anders couldn't bear the sight of him holding a needle and thread in his hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > "Maybe you should join the Qun, Fenris."  
> "We could go together. I'd be happy to sew your mouth shut."


	3. Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris-centric | (one-sided?) Fenders

Fenris knows exactly what it must look like.

Just this morning he had stumbled against a crate containing half a dozen potion bottles, sending fine cracks spreading through the glass. The mage had given him a lecture on the prices of bottles these days and made it clear that he would expect financial compensation if any of them were leaking now. Fenris had in turn offered some suggestions as to where Anders could shove his bottles, broken or not.

The incident had been a rather civil affair compared last week's. Exiting the clinic Fenris had stepped into the water bowl the mage set out for darktown's cats, spilling the contents all over the floor and scaring off two kittens sitting nearby. It was probably the second part that angered Anders so much he spent several minutes hurling expletives at Fenris - while an approaching patient, arm wrapped in a blood-soaked piece of cloth, turned on his heel and decided to will the problem away instead.

Knocking over the mage's staff however, usually leaning against the wall somewhere near him, time and time again has almost become a tradition. There's nothing breakable about it and it doesn't suffer any damage from occasionally clattering to the floor. It's something Anders likes to point out with a smug grin because he apparently thinks Fenris is attempting to sabotage every use of magic in Kirkwall.

He was less amused that time Fenris ripped the handle off the clinic door - including large splinters of the wood that had been holding it. It had looked interesting, a hole in the door at just the right height for Varric to peer through and pretend he was spying on some very secret goings-on and not just an apostate effectively covering himself in other people's bodily fluids. Once the remainder of the door was yanked open by a furious Anders the dwarf had quickly changed the topic and promised he knew some excellent carpenters who could help out with the problem. Unfortunately Anders hadn't missed that Fenris was still holding "the problem" in one gauntleted hand. Fenris had, though. And upon noticing he had dropped the item as if it had suddenly grown scalding hot. Onto Anders' toes.

He knows what it looks like, he does. His actions fit right in with the words he spits at the mage and his face isn't helping, always stuck on the same indifferent expression; it takes way too much concentration to try and find the appropriate one for each situation in time. But sometimes it's convenient that people have a hard time reading him, that they can't tell vandalism from accident.

He has been quite vocal about his stance on mages so no one asks any unpleasant questions when they assume he's doing it on purpose. And that's fine by him because he really has no intention of letting them in on the actual cause for these mishaps - which, curiously enough, all happen around Anders, never around Merrill or other people he takes issue with. It’s no one’s business that from one calm moment of elven gracefulness he will find himself going straight to fidgeting - suddenly forgets how to hold himself, doesn't know what to do with his hands, where to look, what to say. Except for insults, insults are safe, even expected and help keep up the illusion if nothing else.

Fenris knows it looks like he's in control of what’s going on and that's perfect. Everything is fine. He would rather keep breaking replaceable objects - or even Anders' nose - rather than admit he had fallen under another mage's spell.


	4. Shaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris-centric | blink-and-miss Fenders

His legs have given out first, forsaking their duty without warning, shaking just like the ground beneath them until he has succumbed and crumbled down to his knees. Even now that he's lying down they feel boneless, just like his arms, useless appendages that serve no purpose but to weigh him down.

Something is crushing his head, pressure increasing steadily and he can't escape the twisting, the _tearing_ , feels as if his skull must be changing shape beneath it.

Keeping his eyes open has become unbearable, each ray of light piercing straight into his skull, seemingly burning away at it, blurry shapes morphing and swaying back and forth, triggering the first bouts of nausea.

The worst thing however is how his insides are being pulled and twisted by an invisible force, his stomach feels like it's been turned upside down inside his body, cramping up despite having expelled its contents twice already. Eating to refill it is out of question, of course. He'd rather starve than risk making this worse and he is sure consuming anything, even just water, will.

The only sensation that doesn't make him yearn for finding relief in the sweet embrace of death is a cool hand on his damp forehead, carefully pushing back wet, white strands of hair. All he can offer for a reaction is an agonised moan.

"I am so sorry," he hears a familiar, gentle voice say through the cotton someone must have stuffed in his ears, "there is nothing I can do about this. Not much longer now, though."

He can feel that, yes. His body can't take this anymore and will certainly soon give in. It is comforting. He will welcome the end.

Never, Fenris decides in one of his more lucid moments, will he set foot on a ship again.


	5. Soliloquy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric | Kanders, Nanders, Handers, Fenders

His arms are wrapped tightly around his father's broad neck when he tells him the last time, sitting on the edge of his threadbare but comfy straw mattress as they do every night before bedtime. He receives a huff and a manly pat on the back in return. The man has never been too fond of his boy's overly affectionate nature or good at dealing with it so he remains silent. He's just as silent only a few days later when the Templars drag his crying son away in chains.

It more or less slips out when he finds himself in someone’s arms again five years later, bodies pressed against each other under the sheets, Karl's stubble pleasantly tickling at the soft skin of his throat. The man chuckles affectionately as if he's said something funny and he wonders if maybe he has.

Nathaniel has his fingers buried deep in blonde strands when it happens the next time, the teasing grin Anders always has in place these days shifting ever so slightly into something else. In response he gets to feel the other pull away just enough to arch a brow at him for a painfully long moment before shaking his head and returning to the task at hand.

When he tells Ser Pounce-a-lot it's done very quietly because grown men aren't supposed to talk to animals and even though Anders cares little for this principle in general he'd rather not have anyone overhear this and poke fun at it. At least the cat has the decency to acknowledge him with a casual meow before it walks over his head and scampers off to chase after the vermin plaguing the keep.

The words don't come easily when he says them to Hawke, not even after months of lying awake at night, trying to figure out when and how. Finally speaking them aloud was supposed to relieve his tension but it only grows as Hawke blinks at him in confusion, then, after a moment, proceeds to suggest a midnight snack. Anders does what he does best, covers the mess up with a nervous laugh, gets dressed while mumbling a half-hearted excuse - and runs.

It's at the back of his mind when they're like this, Fenris draped over him like a living shield forged of hurt and need, always a steady background noise, nearly drowned out by other sensations, other thoughts, but never quite. But he keeps his silence as the elf keeps his own, for reasons Anders isn't sure he would like to learn about. It matters little if Fenris knows, as long as the mage does. As long as keeping quiet means not having to live through The Silence After once again - as long as it makes Fenris _stay_.


	6. Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no pairing, just angst

"Are you... praying?"

Anders slowly raises his head from joined hands.

"Is that so surprising?"

The elf shifts his weight, leaning against a pillar with crossed arms.

"I cannot recall ever seeing you here. You have made it clear you are no friend of the chantry."

And he just has to roll his eyes because he needs some sort of outlet for his annoyance lest they start sniping at each other here of all places.

That would be inappropriate.

Completely.

It might even get them kicked out. And he won't even think about the possibility either of them starts glowing and scaring the civilians.

"What are you praying for anyway?"

...and still he can't help it. The setup is too good to be wasted, too much tempting potential.

Anders simply stares ahead at the golden image of the Maker's bride with her head pridefully tilted up, his face comically slack and voice low.

"My soul."

Fenris huffs, feeling oddly comforted as he always does when Anders plays along with his banter. For all his faults the mage never disappoints when it comes to delivering a dry comeback.

"I am not sure even the Maker himself can still salvage that mess."

Anders doesn't laugh.

Doesn't react at all.

He feels empty, empty and light, way _too_ light now that the weight of drakestone and sela petrae has lifted from the pockets of his coat, as if he's going to float away any moment. The chantry carries this burden for him now and its roof feels so much heavier above his head, threatening, making him jealous of its certain fate.

"Forgiveness," he says, locking eyes with the giant statue overseeing the hall, "isn't what I'm praying for."


	7. Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric | mild (accidental) self-harm, in a way?

Sometimes it becomes too much.

Sometimes he locks up the clinic in the middle of the day, turns off all lights and lies down - not on his bed but the floor, where it's hard and cold and dirty - and just tries not to think, to ignore the notions in his head that aren't his, the pull and the push. Of course it doesn't work, taint burning like acid in his veins, Justice rearing violently in his head, much displeased with the moment of inaction, but not having to function for a while still helps. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes to make them _shut up_ , all of them, pressing hard enough to hurt if not bruise, doesn't have to worry about injury after all when physical damage can always be fixed so easily.

When he's lucky he can snap out of it for a moment or two, perfectly peaceful and quiet, before the humming takes up again.

When he isn't he lies there for what feels like years, back slowly going numb, coat gathering dirt, ponytail coming undone, with no relief whatsoever.

Today he isn't lucky.

There's a pounding at the door, the cheerful, energetic kind that announces the glorious Champion of Kirkwall - probably partly in pieces once more thanks to yet another pointless adventure. For one selfish second Anders regrets that it's obviously not the fist he's knocking with that's injured.

He lets go of his eyes, rises clumsily from the floor and stumbles a few steps in the dark, opening the door with one hand while rubbing his face with the other. Hawke is on him immediately, clasping his stiff shoulder in a painful grasp.

"Anders, finally! I knew you'd be there. Listen, I need- Were you sleeping?"

The mage runs a hand through his tousled hair. Sleep actually sounds like a good idea. Unfortunately it doesn't seem to be an option right now.

"I- Yes, I... must have nodded off."

Hawke beams at him and claps on his shoulder. _Ow_.

"Fantastic, I need you rested. Apparently there's been a series of burglaries in Hightown, valuable paintings and jewellery and - well, other _valuables_ , you know? Cutlery? You know, I don't get why people need to sip their soup from precious metals. It's not like a wooden spoon doesn't get the job done. Whatever, stuff goes missing, later turns back up at the black market. Aveline's onto it but apparently the guard is currently too understaffed to bother with this kind of thing and she could really need some help and since we have no idea who we're dealing with - and how many, I mean this could be a huge thing? It really makes you wonder why no one got caught so far considering the number of cases - anyway, I thought we'd really better bring our healer along-"

As if it _matters_. They're all tagging along because of Hawke, not because they care. No one can say no to Hawke and even though he may not be fully aware of doing so he exploits this advantage to the fullest. The rest of the man's prattle washes over Anders as he nods wearily, grabs his staff and joins the group outside, Hawke already marching off in the direction of his latest clue with everyone else following.

He starts at the feeling of a hand on his wrist and then again when he realises who the hand belongs to. The frown comes so naturally to him at the sight of narrowed green eyes beneath dark brows.

"What?"

"There is blood all over the white of your eye. It looks... grotesque."

Is there? …in which one? No, he can't ask that.

"It's a new look I'm trying. Really matches the whole 'tortured, possessed apostate' theme, don't you think?"

The remark does what it's supposed to and Fenris dramatically rolls not only his eyes but his entire head as well and speeds up to join Hawke at the front.

At least some of his demons are easily driven away, Anders thinks, as he sends a wave of healing magic into his buzzing head, disposing of all visible evidence of the mess inside.


	8. Gaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric
>
>> "It's like you're trapped in your own body, seeing out your eyes, while someone else moves you like a puppet. And you're trying to scream, to move a single muscle, but there's no escape. Until you look down at the blood on your hands..."
>
>> "I'm having more... blanks in my memory. It's like the longer we go the less of _me_ there is."

It's like the world grinds to a halt. Like everything simply stops existing – except it's him who ceases to be. It is not darkness, not light, not some fairytale wonderland full of mythical creatures and the ascended spirits of the deceased.

It is nothing.

_He_ is nothing.

He has wondered before if this is what death feels like. _Doesn't_ feel like.

It is not necessarily blood on his hands that he wakes up to afterwards, not always. Ever so often it's ink, smeared all over fingers and palms, splattering his arms, his face, both hands weary from overuse. The floor is littered with paper then, overflowing with words strung together stiffly by a force not used to needing them.

Given where he lives it's not surprising it's dirt beneath his hands, on a bad day beneath his face as well, that greets him upon awakening. The company he keeps even regularly drags him out into the wilderness for a fun change from the usual Darktown filth. It's also on these occasions that he sometimes falls back into reality holding onto the arm of one of his companions after blacking out in the midst of battle.

Other days there's no clue at first and he has to put his fingers to his lips to detect the tang of metal there to know where he's been, of heavy iron armour, lyrium and hypocrisy.

The worst thing to wake up holding however is his own thin and worn blanket. To open his eyes to the semi-darkness of what he calls his bedroom, rough linen clenched between far too clean fingers. Not a speck of anything left beneath the nails, his coat folded into a suspiciously neat square next to his cot. To have absolutely no evidence of what has happened, of what he has done, no idea where to even begin to piece together the course of events that must have taken place. Sometimes he isn't even sure anything _has_ happened, that he hasn't simply slept in.

It's eerily quiet in his head in these moments and he can do nothing but pray, pray to the Maker that it's a content, not a guilty silence.

Those are the times when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, _nothing_ might not be so bad.

 

 


	9. Q.E.D.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenders

Anders has a type. He has always been very certain of what he's looking for - playful flirtations for fun aside - and has thought this matter through many times, compared and pondered and tested until it all fit together.

He wants someone taller than him, not so easy to find for someone his height and therefor particularly thrilling. Someone whose chest he can lean against, a shoulder at the perfect height for him to curl up on, a chin he can tuck himself under when they embrace, nuzzling against their throat.

He wants a partner with a larger frame made of muscle, someone who can easily sweep him off his feet, a strong presence to guard him against the demons that haunt him at night, in the Fade, in the dark, in his head. Someone whose lap he can sit in without crushing them, wriggling against them while explaining the benefits of mage robes before moving on to a demonstration.

He wants hair to brush against his body as the move together, to discover incredibly soft lips in the midst of a scratchy beard, to rake his nails through a chest of curly fuzz, something to hold onto when things get slippery. The darker the better, tempting him to get close enough for it to mingle with his own, gold and dark, the most noble of contrasts.

He wants a charming smirk to rouse his own in the morning, needs someone who can always bring a smile to his lips and crack a joke when he least expects it to pull him out of a dark memory.

He wants someone who sees him for and accepts what he is, kisses his fingertips as they crackle with magic and tells him he's a wonder.

Fenris isn't any of that. He's the antithesis of it, he's everything backwards and turned upside down.

It's clearly Hawke he should want: All his fantasies a perfect portrayal of the man in his mind, created years before they have even met, two souls destined for each other finally united - and Anders wonders which part of all that his heart has missed.


	10. Every man for himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric

If there is any constant to Anders' life it's the certain feeling that it won't be a long one.

Sinister as it may seem the thought has been a relief in his darkest hours. However, it also comes with a sense of pressure, the beat of the clock growing louder and louder in the back of his mind with each passing year as he wonders just how much time he has left, how much he can still accomplish.

He knows he will never have a family, has known this since he was twelve and was welcomed to his new 'home' with a lengthy speech about what his life was and, more importantly, was _not_ going to be from now on. That there would never be children who look up to him and call him Father, who proudly tell half-made-up stories about his greatness to their friends - the same way he used to, once, before it all changed.

It's a truth he barely regrets anymore, numb acceptance dulling the pain over the years. Perhaps it's even a good thing he hadn't held any hopes in that regard, he thinks when he awakens with the foul taste of stale Darkspawn blood in his mouth one day, to yet another different life. An even shorter one, they tell him.

There may be no children to waste his affection on but there are plenty of people who need his help, both in Amaranthine and the world he travels with his Warden comrades, and help he does.

Before the ground once more crumbles beneath his feet.

He doesn't fight the change, just goes through the motions again this time, and, as he's slipping, finds there’s one more favour he can fit in.

By the time they reach Kirkwall it's become a routine. People turn to him when they're in need and it feels good, good to know he makes a difference to someone's life while he's still here, never knowing what tomorrow will bring. If it will come at all.

There are lines he won't cross though. When Merrill asks why he doesn't adopt a cat when he so clearly enjoys having them around he can't bring himself to say it out loud, to admit he couldn't bear the thought of leaving someone who depended on him behind. Again.

Instead he pours out everything he has, giving and giving, to Hawke, to the people of Darktown, to mages, making sure something remains, something that will make people remember, remember him, and in a positive light at that.

It doesn't matter if they remember or even know his name - or what he makes people call him these days. What matters is the tiny freckled girl from the alienage remembering that he was the one who fixed her broken leg, the sweet old lady who sleeps at the docks knowing there are still people in this city who care and are willing to help out when she's had to go without food for days again. Even the cats straying around the clinic matter, the few that will make it to adulthood because he puts out fresh water for them to drink and shares whatever meat makes it to his home.

Anything that remains. It's selfish, he knows that, but that's something he's always been and even Justice can't disagree with and deny him expressing it this way.

The pressure becomes unbearable when their plans for revenge ( _justice_ , he tells himself once more) take a more concrete form. When there's suddenly such a big evil he knows everyone will blame on him, long after his death which he knows now is so much closer than even he could have imagined. So he works day and night, writes and heals and fights and laughs at others' jokes when he can bring himself to. And gives and gives and gives, because soon there will be nothing left anyway, just so that maybe one day someone out there will remember him for something other than the stale taste of ashes and the stench of burnt bodies.


	11. The Nature of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders-centric

It is precise, Justice says. There will be no further casualties, exact calculations and measurements will make sure of that.

It is quick, Justice says. There will be no time to stop it, not for them and not for anyone else. It will be over in an instant.

It is humane, Justice says. No one will suffer, not physically. They will not even realise what is happening before it's too late. There will be no pain, even they don't deserve that.

It is symbolic, Justice says. A gaping wound in the city center will be left to remind them, even long after the deed is done.

It is necessary, Justice says. Because it's about time someone takes a stand and ends the ignorance with something that cannot be ignored.

It is just, Justice says.

It is murder, Anders screams, unheard.


	12. Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenders, Donnic/Aveline (do they have a ship name? Is it Doveline? Please let it be Doveline)

"There is someone, actually."

Donnic throws him a look of surprise over a particularly bad hand, grateful to be able to distract from the embarrassment to come. Unlike Fenris he's never been lucky at playing cards.

"Really?"

Fenris nods behind his parapet of two empty bottles as he goes about emptying the third. For all the conversations they've had it's never been this kind of 'man talk' before and it feels a bit strange. Maybe he should have stuck with his promise to not drink as much tonight, it appears to loosen his tongue.

"Considering your looks - a dream of a lady, I'd wager?" Donnic asks with a conspiratorial grin, reaching for his ale.

The elf jerks all of a sudden and chokes violently on his wine, bending over the table and gripping the edge as he coughs and pants, desperately trying to get the liquid out from where it doesn't belong.

As Donnic rises from his chair to head over to him he lifts a hand to let the man know he'll be fine, a last shaky cough rattling from his lungs before he relaxes back into his seat, wiping a hand over his mouth.

"Everything alright?"

"Yes," Fenris says hoarsely, face twisted awkwardly between amusement and despair, "and... I suppose he could be considered handsome. By some. In a way."

Donnic's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

"Oh. _Oh_. I'm sorry, I didn't realise-"

"It is fine," Fenris interrupts and then dares another attempt at drinking. He'll need a whole lot more wine to erase the image the guardsman has just conjured up in his mind: A blond mage with short pigtails and a frilly dress, winking seductively as he toys with the seam.

This time his friend waits until he has put down the bottle before he talks again.

"So, is it... something serious?"

The elf cocks his head to the side, contemplating the wine on his tongue and the cards in his hand. He's going to win, once more.

Is it?

They haven't really discussed that, mostly because serious conversation is something they've struggled with as long as they've known each other and still all too often ends in regret. And broken things. And sometimes in bed though neither of them really minds that outcome.

Affectionate? Surprisingly. Addictive? Dangerously. Electrifying? _Obscenely_ so. Exclusive? As far as he knows - not that Anders even has enough free time to share with two.

Doomed? Most likely.

Does that mean it's not serious?

His eyes wander to the golden band around Donnic's finger, symbol of not only a legal union but also of personal plans, of a future together. Family, a legacy. Things so many hold up as the ultimate cornerstones of a good life. But Fenris' life has never been good.

It makes him wonder for a moment what it is, then, that makes him stay.

The wine may be - finally - getting to his head, he thinks, as he hears himself reply.

"Yes. It is."


	13. Precautions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenders | Beta by the amazing Calligraphypenn  
> Can also be found [on tumblr](http://ndrs.tumblr.com/post/146330224738/precautions)

The contents of the box vary greatly in shape, size, texture and state of wear, bigger ones both round and straight sticking out like cliffs from a shining sea of smaller metal fragments.

To Fenris, it's just an obscure puzzle with no end and no beginning, no matter how long he keeps staring at it.

Fortunately Anders appears to see the logic of the mess where he can't, digging around in the scraps with determination in search of that one perfect part. He doesn't look nearly as out of place as he should, kneeling on the floor of Fenris' mansion, surrounded by even more puzzle parts. His coat for once is set aside, and the tip of his tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth.

Apparently the task requires a lot of head-tilting which eventually causes a strand of hair to come loose from Anders’ ponytail. Without thought the mage retracts his hand from the metal to brush it behind his ear, leaving a black streak across his cheekbone in the process.

"I must admit, this is not a skill I expected you to possess."

The blond glances up, then back down, eyes still searching.

"Please. Escaping the tower means you need to know your way around locks as much as around templars. I'm well-versed in both and, thanks to regular practice, not rusty in either."

Finally he drops the box to the ground with a loud jingling noise that makes Fenris cringe, holding up some completely misshapen and battered metal hook to the elf, face lit up as if it's a sovereign he just found on the street.

Fenris knows he should share the excitement, apparently something wonderful has just happened, but his face simply slips into some weird and doubtful expression he can't control.

"I doubt experience with breaking them will be helping with this."

"Fenris, not everyone opens locks by smashing them in half with a sword. In fact making that much noise would definitely have gotten me caught."

As if the mage could _lift_ a sword, let alone swing it. It takes some effort but Fenris manages to keep that comment to himself and instead focuses on Anders finally putting some of the parts together.

"When you know how they work, you can get them open _and_ closed again and no one will ever know you passed through that door. It's called 'strategy'. Oil."

Fenris blinks and stares and only moves to hand over the can of oil he's holding as the man starts making some almost indecent grabbing gestures in his direction. Anders pours a few drops over the parts he's holding before he gives back the can, then adds even more of the scraps, throwing one that's a double back into the box. They're all mismatched, not the same colour, not the same kind of shine – different materials from different places but as long as they fit it doesn't matter.

"Where did you get all these pieces anyway?"

"Not hard to get your hands on, if you ask the right people. Apparently Kirkwall has an excess of parts of locks someone previously took apart – as long as you don't ask about their origin."

That's hardly a surprise.

"Must I worry about the company you keep?"

"You should. The worst of them is this surly elf living in a run-down Hightown mansion though – incredibly ungrateful."

Watching the mage handle tools looks just _wrong_ and even Fenris can tell he's not supposed to hold them this way. But somehow everything _doesn't_ fall apart again as he fumbles around at the door. The elf huffs, defiantly setting the oil can down on the floor with a loud _clonk_.

" _You_ wanted this! I have lived here for years without locks. If it was not for _your_ paranoia–"

"Paranoia?!" The blond's head whips around in annoyance, hands still holding his workpiece in place.

"If I didn't know any better I'd think Hawke _owns_ this place from the way he struts in no matter the hour! If you're so keen on him watching us maybe we should just invite him over next time? I'm sure he can keep a secret."

The elf pulls a face. Right. Hawke would swear on it. But a week later all of Kirkwall would have forgotten about _Hard in Hightown_ and instead turn to the new series _Mages and Mansions_ – any protagonists' resemblance to real persons, living or dead, purely coincidental, as usual.

"I would rather not."

Anders nods and tweaks at his construction.

"There you have it."

It's a statement on both the Hawke situation as well as the lock, Fenris realises, as the mage draws himself up from the floor, eyeing his work while absent-mindedly rubbing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. It's not much cleaner than his palm and now there's a smudge of black on his nose too.

Fenris hopes whatever his face is doing isn't a smile. Just in case that it might be mistaken for one he decides to distract from it. When Anders finally notices he's moving Fenris is only two feet away anymore, jaw set. The mage holds up his oil-smeared palms, eyes widening.

"I, uh, careful, m-my hands are dirty-"

"Your _face_ is dirty," Fenris says, and kisses him anyway.


	14. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no pairing

"What are you doing?"

It was a simple enough question and yet Fenris looked up from his porridge to scowl at the mage sitting across from him at the heart of their camp, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

"I am eating?" he offered, knowing exactly that it wasn't what the man wanted to hear.

Anders rolled his eyes in obvious annoyance and dropped the spoon into his own bowl to free his hand for dramatic gesturing.

"Yes. Of course. Ha ha," he declared, "What I meant was, you keep complaining about how bad slaves have it - not that I'm denying that, mind you - and how they suffer and how things in Tevinter really need to change. So my question is: What are you doing about that?"

That was unexpected. Fenris blinked at him, not even finding his usual rage at the mage's complaining amidst his confusion.

"We... fight slavers all the time," he reminded the man, raising an eyebrow.

Wrong answer, he realised, as Anders set his bowl down to the ground and inhaled deeply as if preparing for some major speech. One Fenris really didn't need to hear.

"We do. But we fight them because someone tips off Hawke and we all run along. Besides, the few errant groups we take down hardly make a difference - especially because we only get the dumb ones here where slavery is illegal and they're persecuted by other forces as well. So what else do you do?"

Fenris was still trying to figure out what the mage was getting at. Whatever it was, he had a feeling it was in some way meant to offend him and that alone got him into the usual mood conversations with Anders triggered. Varric, who was still sitting next to him (while Hawke had already curled up to sleep a few feet away, snoring like a bear in hibernation), seemed to notice the growing tension and groaned, getting to his feet to put away his dishes.

"Blondie, it's been a long day. How about we all get a good night's sleep and tomorrow you two can go back to bickering with full force, sound good?"

"No, no," Anders rejected the idea, fixating Fenris with his glare as he leaned forward, "I'm really curious about this one."

The elf narrowed his eyes in response as Varric fled the scene with a shrug and a mumbled "suit yourself".

"What else am I supposed to do? This is all I can do here, although I am fully aware the root of the problem lies elsewhere."

"Then why are you here?" Anders shot back.

Fenris searched his eyes for his intentions. He clearly was up to no good tonight.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he tried. It seemed plausible enough. Maybe Anders meant to inspire Fenris to go back to Tevinter and finally leave him alone to plot his mage rebellion in peace.

To his surprise the only reaction the question earned him was a sigh. The mage sagged back into himself.

"No. This isn't about me - well, in a way I guess it is. But it's really about you."

Fenris felt himself relax a bit as well at the change of tone but his confusion remained.

"You keep complaining about me defending mages and fighting for their freedom, trying to come up with a way to make all...this," he gestured around in the air, apparently trying to describe the world as a whole with his motions, "work out so everyone can be happy. And safe. And then you go on to whine about how slaves have it so much worse and that they're the ones who need help. But I don't see you doing anything except for the occasional ambush with Hawke."

His words gave Fenris pause for a moment. Surprising enough, the mage did have a point. As much as he whined about mage rights it wasn't empty talk coming from him. Fenris was hardly a close friend but even he knew the man worked tirelessly to change whatever little he could and sought out every opportunity available to stand up for his ideals. While Fenris did enjoy ripping the hearts out of slavers' chests and occasionally went after smaller groups or single individuals on his own without involving Hawke he knew that his actions here would have no effect whatsoever to the state of affairs in Tevinter. If he was honest with himself he had never truly considered going out of his way to do anything else either. The idea seemed unreal, somehow.

"Even if I was to return to Tevinter... what would I accomplish on my own? Provided I was not recognised and returned to one of Danarius' heirs as soon as I crossed the border."

Anders actually smiled at that.

"Oh, I don't know. What could one common lyrium-powered elf with the ability to rip people's hearts out with his hand accomplish? Surely you can get one one of those at every corner in Tevinter."

"Hardly," Fenris huffed.

Shaking his head, Anders bent down to pick up his bowl.

"I'm not asking you to try and take down the entire Magisterium on your own. Do you honestly think there is no one over there who agrees with you? I get it, all magisters are evil. But even if that was true, not everyone in Tevinter is a magister. Which doesn't mean they don't have the power to make a difference if you play your cards right."

The mage contemplated the last bits of his dinner for a while, stabbing at them with his spoon while Fenris still couldn't turn his eyes away.

"You're not supposed to change the system on your own. But those who wish for change - they need someone to spur them into action, to unite them and give them strength. They need a leader."

Anders' eyes met his over the flicker of the campfire.

"Change needs to start somewhere. We will probably never see the world as we would like it to be but we can have a hand in setting everything in motion so that one day it might become that way. That will have to do," he finished with a shrug and wandered off to wash his bowl.

Fenris kept staring into the fire for a bit longer, thinking about nothing and everything.

*

It's the same state of mind he's in now, how else could it be with the whole scene being a sad remodelling of the earlier situation. The campfire flickers near his feet, fighting on against the first, small drops of rain that have begun to fall as they set up camp, the bowl of porridge warm in his hand and as disgusting-looking as ever but with added rain to wash away even the last hint of taste. Anders sits across from him, he always does. It's some sort of unspoken rule meant to keep them from fighting over dinner that everyone firmly insists on although it has proven ineffective on so many occasions. Fenris knows the mage is there but he can't look, can only stare down at the food he knows he has to eat but really doesn't want to. His stomach is upset as it is.

The others eat, mostly in silence, though Isabela tries to sneak in the occasional half-hearted joke. Hawke tries to laugh at every single one and each time it sounds like he's choking and Fenris really wishes he would stop trying to pretend he's alright.

None of them are. Least of all the mage, he muses, strange as that is. It is obvious that the entire group of them fleeing the city hadn't been part of his plan. Neither had, so it seemed, being alive to tag along. Blowing up the chantry was supposed to be the big finale, the spark to light the fire he dreamed of, and he was willing to give his life for that, for a chance of change.

Looking him in the eye now is impossible – Fenris doesn't know how to deal with this, he's angry and shocked and somehow jealous at the same time, it's all too wrong – but he can see his hands through the flames, over the rim of his bowl, clutching the mage's own meal tightly but not moving to eat, stiff with guilt and grief.

Fenris understands now. Even if this cause he dedicated himself to will eventually kill him he is alright with that because he will make a difference, made them listen. What happened today will have consequences, one way or another, and people can no longer turn a blind eye to his concerns like they have before.

They haven't talked about what comes next, haven't talked about anything at all, really, but Fenris is rather certain they will split up soon. It's not just that travelling in a group this big will draw far more attention than they can afford.

It's how everyone pretends Anders isn't even there because acknowledging what happened hurts far too much, it's how they can barely look at each other at all, a sudden unease settling over their friendship, doubt of the others' intentions, all trust within their group crumbled to ashes along with the chantry walls.

When they part ways, Fenris knows where to go.


End file.
